Sundays Are for Murder

by Marie Ferrarella

  “He killed your sister. You can’t let him go free.”

  “I don’t intend to, Dad.”

  “So what are you doing about it?”

  She felt even more weary than she had when she’d walked in through the door. Talking to her father always drained her. “It’s an ongoing case, Dad. I can’t talk about it.”

  Anger filled his voice. “I’m your father.”

  “And I’m a federal agent. There are rules. I’ve got a call coming in, Dad. I have to go.” She disconnected before he had a chance to protest. Leaving the receiver on the sofa, Charley leaned her head against Dakota and forced herself to think about nothing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHILE JUGGLING his pizza box, Nick managed to insert his key into the lock. Because the key was new and the lock was not, there was an awkward dance between the two, a moment of inflexibility before the tumbler finally gave way and turned, allowing him into his newly rented garden apartment.

  His palm had grown uncomfortably warm where it was making contact with the bottom of the pizza box. The small mom-and-pop store directly behind his apartment complex took pride in serving their food hot. Very hot. He was going to have to curb his hunger if he didn’t want to burn the hell out of the roof of his mouth, Nick thought.

  He closed the door with his shoulder, then flipped the lock. This stretch of Santa Ana, where he’d chosen to live, was away from the high-crime area that marked the center of the old city. Located across the street from Costa Mesa and South Coast Plaza, touted to be the largest shopping mall west of the Mississippi, the area was almost safe enough for him to leave his door unlocked during the day.

  Almost being the operative word, Nick mused as he slid the box holding his dinner onto the tiny table in his breakfast nook. Nook was a perfect word to describe the area. Nook could also aptly describe just about every part of the apartment. There was a nook where his sofa and TV set resided, a nook for his bed and battered bureau.

  Maneuvering between the nooks was a challenge because, in addition to the furniture, the moving company had delivered a myriad of boxes. Within the boxes was the product of his twenty-nine years on earth. The boxes had been here, largely untampered with, for the past six days. He didn’t see a grand opening in any of their near futures.

  Nick paused to remove his holster and weapon and place them on the table beside the pizza. He’d then crossed to the refrigerator and took out a can of soda.

  You’d think that someone who’d moved and lived in six different states before his fifteenth birthday would be able to unpack everything and get things in their rightful place in a reasonable amount of time. The trouble was, every other time he’d moved, and this included when he’d gone to his own bachelor digs in D.C., his mother and his sister were the ones who did the unpacking for him because he just never got around to it.

  It wasn’t his strong point. He knew how to work a case, had a knack for mining the hidden nuggets that could eventually lead to solving it. The gift his mother and sister possessed was that they knew how to make order out of chaos. Something he definitely was not good at.

  Popping the lid on the can, he shrugged. There was no sense in unpacking what he didn’t immediately need. And, since dinner tonight had come courtesy of Salvatore and Selena’s Pizzeria, he didn’t need to unearth anything. Certainly not plates or utensils. The pizza represented the ultimate in finger food. He always drank his soda right out of the can, so no need to dirty a glass.

  Taking a long sip from his soda, Nick rotated his shoulders before picking up a slice of pizza. Man, he was tired.

  His body hadn’t adjusted to the time difference yet. His internal clock was still on East Coast time. It was ten o’clock in the evening back in D.C. right now and, although he’d never been one of those souls who turned in early, the day he’d spent with his new partner, coupled with the time difference, had all but wiped him out.

  Catching a serial-killer case his first time up at bat in the new office threw him headfirst into the deep end of the pool.

  He was going to have to find a gym and get himself back into shape. Special Agent Charley Dow struck him as a long-distance swimmer. He didn’t want her showing him up. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Not that he had anything against working with a woman. But there was just something about this woman that forbade him to look bad.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Dow had a chip on her shoulder. Whether she had something against him in particular or men in general he didn’t know, but it made things difficult. He had the feeling that she was waiting for him to screw up somehow. He was going to have to stay on his toes, not let down his guard. And he was going to have to learn how to get along with her, at least for a while. It wouldn’t look right asking for a transfer his first week on the job. Especially since he wanted in on this case.

  He’d gone alone to the morgue to see about Stacy Pembroke. The M.E. was in the middle of his evaluation. Stacy Pembroke was only twenty-five. Ashley’s age. Hell, under different circumstances, that could have been Ashley on the table.

  The Sunday Killer’s victims were all someone’s sister, someone’s daughter. The bastard had to be stopped and put away if not put down. And he wanted to be there when it happened.

  That meant staying partnered with Dow.

  He thought of Gerald, the partner he had before coming out west. Gerald and he had hit a rhythm. So much so that they didn’t even have to talk much. They each seemed to know what the other guy was thinking. He doubted he’d get to that level with Dow. If today was any indication, he had no idea where her mind was going.

  Thinking the slice had had enough time to cool off, Nick took a bite. He chewed slowly, evaluating the flavors that came to meet his tongue.

  As far as pizzas went, he had to admit that this sampling wasn’t bad. But Salvatore and Selena didn’t hold a candle to the pizzas he’d had in New York City. Cheese there tended to be one long, continuous strand from first bite to last. Sloppy, sure, but tasty as hell. A love affair with the palate.

  He couldn’t help wondering how else California would fail to measure up.

  Nick went over and turned the TV on, switching to the all-news cable channel he’d discovered earlier in the week. He adjusted the volume, then sat down on the freshly cleaned beige rug.

  The blond, perfectly made-up woman behind the news desk looked grim as she announced: “The top story in the Southland tonight is a grisly one. The serial killer has claimed another victim. Stacy Pembroke was discovered early this morning by a friend who was concerned when the twenty-five-year-old restaurant hostess failed to appear at work last night. This makes the young woman the twelfth victim in six years. Our reporters tried to get a statement from the family.”

  Nick cringed. Why was there always some reporter looking for a sound bite of attention, willing to shove a microphone into the face of a grieving soul? He reached for the remote to change the channel.

  The doorbell rang.

  Nick swallowed a curse. “Wouldn’t you know it? Murphy’s law.”

  Leaning back, he could just about see around the boxes to make out the front door from his position on the floor. He took another bite, debating whether or not to ignore whoever was at the door or answer it.

  Most likely some kid was selling something. He’d already been subjected to that on his first day here and wound up buying wrapping paper he didn’t need in support of some elementary school he’d never heard of. He’d chalked it up to forging good community relations.

  But he wasn’t in the mood for wrapping paper. Or interruptions for that matter.

  Whoever was at the door rang again. Apparently they weren’t about to give up easily. Persistent, he thought darkly. Which immediately brought his new partner to mind.

  Maybe that was Dow at the door. He frowned, taking another bite of his dinner as the woman on the cable channel faded into a commercial.

  Likely as not, Dow had probably thought of something after he’d left the office and was
here to bust his manhood. He hadn’t told her where he lived, but he had no doubts that she had ways of finding out.

  With a sigh, Nick got up, leaving the TV on. He thought of putting his pizza slice back in the box before answering the door, but hunger proved to be greater than his desire for neatness.

  After pausing to wipe his fingers on a napkin, Nick opened the door.

  No one was there.

  He should have remained where he was, he thought. About to retreat, he glanced down at the mat the complex superintendent had given him as a “welcome to Sunflower Creek Apartments” gift.

  The body of a small, brown rabbit had been placed right in the middle of it. The rabbit’s throat had been slit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NICK REACTED instantly, ducking back into the apartment. He grabbed his sheathed weapon from the table.

  When he crossed the threshold, stepping just outside of his apartment, his movements were precise as if in slow motion. No one needed to remind him of the value of caution. One misstep could cost him his life, or at the very least, turn him into a target.

  There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

  Gun cocked, he scanned from left to right, then out into the parking lot that faced the door of his first-floor garden apartment.

  Nothing.

  The rain had receded to a fine mist. Just annoying enough to keep evening strollers from venturing out of their dry apartments. The streetlights were on. Nick squinted, trying to make out a solitary figure hiding within one of the carports. There was no one. Whoever had rung his doorbell was as fleet as the rabbit they’d left on his doormat had once been.

  A noise caught his attention. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of a car pulling away. But that could have just as easily been one of the complex’s residents going out for the evening. It made no sense to attempt to give chase. Especially when he’d only heard the vehicle, not seen it. He had no idea what direction the driver had taken.

  Nick lowered his weapon. His adrenaline was another matter.

  Pity wafted through him as he looked down at the dead animal on his doorstep. There was no blood, so it had been killed somewhere else and then transported here. He hoped the animal hadn’t been tortured. Something told him that it hadn’t been, that killing the rabbit wasn’t the object. Leaving a message was.

  Though a good three thousand miles separated him from his old life, Nick had an uneasy feeling he knew exactly who’d left the dead rabbit on his doorstep.

  How the hell had he known where to find him? Granted, Nick’s transfer to the West Coast wasn’t a secret. His superiors knew and his family. But the information wasn’t exactly posted on the Internet.

  Apparently Sean Dixon had hidden talents he didn’t know about. The thought did not fill him with joy.

  Shaking his head, Nick went back into his apartment to fetch a plastic grocery bag and a pair of plastic gloves. The rabbit was evidence. Nick carefully slipped the animal inside the plastic bag, then tied off the top, making a secure knot.

  The rabbit was going to have to spend the night in his refrigerator, he thought grimly. Luckily, it was pretty much empty, except for a few cans of soda and three bottles of beer.

  He deposited the rabbit on top of the lettuce crisper. Under the circumstances, it seemed an appropriate temporary resting place.

  That done, he crossed back to the table and glanced at the pizza still in the box. For a split second, his stomach threatened to cohabitate with his windpipe.

  A man had to keep up his strength, he argued silently. His not eating wasn’t going to matter to the deceased rabbit. With far less enthusiasm than he’d experienced only minutes earlier, Nick picked up another slice of pizza and returned to the living room. The program he had switched on had finished a round of commercials.

  Nick sat down in front of the set.

  THE FORENSIC LABS used by FBI special agents were located in the basement of the Federal Building that the Bureau occupied. The A.D.’s secretary, Alice something-or-other, had mentioned it to him yesterday in an effort to give him a thumbnail sketch of the area. At the time her description hadn’t been important to him, but he was glad now that he’d paid attention to the woman, even though she had a voice guaranteed to put insomniacs to sleep.

  Nick stepped off the elevator. As the doors closed behind him, he became conscious of the stillness. The office was quieter than a tomb. He wondered if anyone was in so early.

  Only one way to find out, he thought.

  The overhead fluorescent lights seemed to be using up their last wattage of energy. The hallway appeared almost unnaturally dim, enhancing the emptiness. It was just before eight o’clock.

  Nick could hear the sound made by his shoes as his soles made contact with the floor. Upstairs, rugs throughout the area muffled the sound of approach. In the basement, the acoustics seemed almost incredibly amplified.

  The floor covering here appeared to be some kind of man-made tile. The pattern was speckled and monotonous. He hoped that didn’t say something about the nature of the work being done in this area.

  Not knowing exactly where he was going, Nick made his way down the winding corridor until he came across an open door. As he looked into the room, he saw a tall, thin male technician in a white lab coat.

  Headphones on his head, the technician seemed to be in his own little world as he sat on a stool next to a long counter that ran half the length of the room. Holding a large eyedropper, the man was depositing a single drop of liquid into each of the test tubes lined up in front of him.

  Nick walked into the room and attempted to place himself where the lab technician would be able to see him. The name tag just over his breast pocket identified him as one Hank Garcia. Caught up in his work, Hank Garcia continued humming and dispensing drops of opaque liquid, completely oblivious to Nick’s entrance.

  Trying again, Nick leaned over until he was directly in Hank’s line of vision.

  Startled, Hank drew in a quick breath. Putting the eyedropper down, he took off his headphones, sliding them down around his neck. The headphones hung there like an incomplete necklace, audible music coming from both earpieces. Hank looked at him, suspicion and annoyance washing over his face.

  “Hey man, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  Nick nodded toward the dangling earphones. “Listening to music at that level will make you deaf.”

  The next moment, he wondered how his father’s voice had managed to emerge from his mouth. That was the kind of caution his father had been guilty of voicing. He’d always viewed it as the Colonel’s constant attempts to curtail his freedom and control him.

  “Hey, Snakepit’s gotta be heard loud in order to be appreciated,” Hank protested. And then he frowned slightly. “Should you be down here?”

  Shifting the bag with its carcass to his other hand, Nick fished out his wallet and held it up for the tech’s benefit.

  “Special Agent Nick Brannigan,” Nick introduced himself. Tucking his wallet back into his pocket, Nick placed the plastic grocery bag on the counter. He nodded at it. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Hank leaned over and took apart the bag’s knot. Very carefully, he exposed what was inside. If he was surprised to find the dead rabbit, he didn’t show it. Nick got the impression that the young tech viewed surprises as uncool. The only indication that Hank found the bag’s contents less than appealing was the slight flaring of his nostrils.

  Hank replaced the sides of the bag and looked at his visitor. “Right off the top of my head, I’d say it’s dead.”

  “Brilliant deduction,” Nick replied drily. “What else can you tell me?”

  A shade of confusion highlighted the young face. “Like?”

  Good question, Nick thought. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, except he was pretty certain you couldn’t get prints off fur. But there might be traces of other things, things that might turn his suspicions into certainties.

  He left it open t
o interpretation. Garcia was the forensic tech, not him. “Anything.”

  Hank pressed his lips into a tight line. “That’s going to take some time. I’m a little backed up here.” And then Hank laughed under his breath. “But then, I’m always a little backed up here. How fast do you need this?”

  That was easy. Yesterday. “As fast as you can get it to me.”

  Cocking his head, Hank took another peek at the grocery bag’s contents. His brows knit together, as if he was trying to connect invisible dots in his head. “This part of a case you’re working?”

  Nick didn’t believe in lying. Stretching the truth, however, was something else. He knew that, as a rule, the Bureau frowned on using its facilities for personal matters. But then, he argued, maybe he was wrong about the rabbit’s origin. Maybe it was a message from the serial killer. It was a well-known theory that most serial killers started out killing small animals.

  But the Sunday Killer wasn’t just starting out.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Nick said.

  “In other words,” Hank said knowingly, “you’d like to keep this just between us.”

  Nick nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused, then added honestly, “I’d consider it a favor.”

  When Hank smiled, he looked more like a mischievous boy than a young man who had graduated from Polytech with honors.

  “Never know when that might come in handy,” he murmured. “Okay, Special Agent Brannigan, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” His mission accomplished, Nick began to leave.

  Hank called out, stopping him. “If I find anything, where can I reach you?”

  “Seventh floor,” Nick told him. “I’m on the Sunday Killer’s task force.”

  Hank looked duly impressed. The next moment, he retreated to his task and his earphones. Nick noted that he hadn’t bothered to adjust the volume level.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TO MAKE UP FOR HER later-than-usual entrance the day before, Charley came to work the following morning approximately forty-five minutes earlier than her customary starting time. No one would have said anything about the missing minutes, but doing this evened out some inner balance sheet she kept in her head.